for miles, miles, miles
by wellthatdepends
Summary: Beth grifts and Daryl drifts and it was only a matter of time before they met in the middle. [con artist!AU]
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Con artist AU. I don't write a lot of multi-chapter stories because I'm terrible with updating, but we'll see how we go. This will likely only have three parts anyway. Maybe four. As always, thank you all for reading/favouriting/reviewing my little stories. Title from _Holocene_ by Bon Iver. Enjoy.

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* * *

Daryl Dixon is about to die.

It feels dramatic, feels exaggerated, to throw around such a statement, but the barrel of Abraham's gun is heavy against his skull, just like he imagines Rosita's is against Beth's.

 _Beth_. Who, as of sixteen hours ago, is now his _wife_.

"You know why, don't you?" Abraham sneers and Daryl scowls. His hand does not waver, but neither does Daryl's; his own gun trained on Rosita.

"I'll kill her," Daryl warns.

"Yes," Abraham notes, "and then I'll kill you. And then your wife."

"Please," Beth begs, "let's all put down our weapons. Let's just walk away. We never have to see each other again."

"You think we'd believe you?" Rosita snaps, "You think, after Berlin, after _Sydney_ , we'd believe anything you'd say?"

"Sydney was a mistake," Beth says, voice sounding small. Daryl can hear his heart pounding in his chest.

He doesn't have a fucking clue what they're talking about.

"Noah _died_!" Rosita yells, gun shaking slightly, her grip still strong, "Noah died because of you!"

A tear slips down her cheek. She doesn't bother to wipe it away.

"And Berlin?" Abraham asks quietly, "Zach?"

"Your boyfriend died and you didn't even shed a tear," Rosita sneers, "and what about this one?" she jerks her head back towards Daryl, "How you gonna remember him?"

"No one has to die today," Beth whispers.

Abraham cocks his gun.

"Yeah, you do."

There's an alarm. Followed by an explosion.

The whole building shakes and then there's silence.

And the lights go out.

 **.**

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 **.**

 **.**

His favourite bar has turned into his least favourite bar.

And he fucking hates it.

Old Tom didn't give a shit. Knew his customers didn't give a shit, so long as the beer was cold and the whiskey was neat. But Old Tom is dead now, heart attack or something. _Young_ Tom installs actually lighting, serves craft beer and drinks in jars. Has trivia nights, open mic nights. And not just drunks getting up there and singing their sad drunk songs, but college kids, with their out of tune guitars and slam poetry.

Old Tom was probably turning in his grave.

It's come to the point where Daryl should probably find another bar. The old regulars he hasn't seen in weeks and the new regulars all look the same; designer plaid shirts and fair trade beanies. Pristine work boots and polished leather jackets. These kids have never worked a solid day in their life.

As one Dylan wannabe leaves the stage, he waits for the next. Instead, a beautiful blonde girl walks up to the small stage. A woman who had been making out with an Asian guy in one of the darker booths, pauses momentarily, to yell a short _Woo, Beth!_

And like that, she has a name.

She doesn't introduce herself. Doesn't call for silence.

Just a girl with a voice and a guitar. Just a _girl._

There's a healthy amount of applause and a part of him wants to join in, because she is kind of perfect and for the first time, Daryl doesn't find himself cursing Young Tom.

"You don't belong here."

He glances up in surprise. She's beside him, perched on the metal bar stool. Looks her up and down, takes in the sundress and the boots and her blonde hair in pinned braids. Looks her up and down and scowls.

"I don't mean it like that," she smiles gently, "I just mean, you ain't like _them_."

She waves her hand at the others in their vicinity. There's a man beside her, ordering some brand of beer he's never heard of. There's a table of five guys on their phones, only glancing up whenever an attractive woman walks past. There are a couple of guys by the pool table, having a loud argument about some recent summer blockbuster.

"Used to be different, this place," Daryl shrugs, "guess I keep comin' here, hopin' it might go back to what it used to be."

She flashes him a shy smile.

"Let me buy you a drink," she offers and he isn't going to turn down a pretty girl or a shot of whiskey. She places her order with the bartender, who quickly places the glasses in front of them. Fumbling through her bag, she drops her wallet and quickly, he bends down to get it for her.

"Thanks," she smiles, placing the glass to her lips, "what should be drink to?"

"We gotta drink to anything?" Daryl raises his eyebrow and she shrugs, glancing down shyly.

"Ain't it more fun that way?"

He shrugs and she leans into him, her thigh pressing against his.

"To new friends in old places."

Okay. He can drink to that. And he does, slamming back his drink, savouring the burn. She coughs delicately and he chuckles, despite the fact that even he's feeling a bit lightheaded.

"Should stick to what you know, girl," he smirks, "like girly drinks and peach schnapps."

"Never had peach schnapps in my life," she giggles and her laughter is like bells, ringing in his ear. This girl must have powers, making him feel like he's floating.

She makes him feel loose. Makes him feel weightless.

"Girl like you would probably like moonshine."

His hand comes up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. He feel clumsy, uncoordinated.

"Look at you, Daryl Dixon," she teases, "pretending like you know me."

It's instantaneous. The way the warning bells go off in his mind.

"How," he stumbles over his words, "how do you know my name?"

He doesn't feel himself falling until the couple making out are beside him, catching him, leading him out of the bar and into a van.

He blacks out shortly after.

 **.**

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 **.**

He wakes up in a warehouse, zip-tied to a chair.

A chair that's bolted to the ground.

His captors clearly thought a lot about this.

Still, he struggles. Still, he curses until he's hoarse. Examines the room for some kind of sharp edge or weapon. There are a couple of desks, a projector and screen. A playpen, a filing cabinet. A couch and a guitar. _Her_ guitar.

His head is _killing_ him.

"Hey!" He yells, "What the fuck did you give me? Hey, bitch! What the fuck-"

"Please don't call my sister a bitch."

The voice crackles through an unseen speaker, and he struggles in his chair.

"Who the fuck are you people?" he shouts, "Where the fuck am I?"

He's answered by a door swinging open.

A woman, different from the two at the bar, walks in, baby on one hip, gun on the other. She places the child into the playpen, smoothing a hand over her downy head. He watches with a mixture of fascination and confusion as the woman makes her way over to the filing cabinet, unlocking it and grabbing a file.

"I'm going to untie you," she says evenly, "you understand that if you make a move out of line, I will kill you, don't you?"

"Yes ma'am," he mutters.

From one of the desks, she pulls out a large hunting knife. Gun in one hand; knife in the other, she rounds him, the blade making quick work of the plastic.

He rubs his wrists, spits on the concrete floor.

"Why the fuck am I here?"

"You know this man?"

From the file, she reveals a photo of the last face he wanted to see.

His brother.

"Never seen him in my life."

The lie flows easily off his tongue.

"Okay then," the woman sighs, placing the photo back in the file, "I'll tell you who he is. This man is Merle Dixon. Your brother."

"Don't know where he is," Daryl responds, "you gonna let me go now?"

"It's not that easy," the woman frowns, "you see, we gave your brother a large sum of money to do a job for us. And he's skipped town. Costa Rica, we believe."

"Then find him," Daryl rolls his eyes, "ain't got nothin' to do with me."

"If we find him, my husband will kill him," the woman explains, patiently, "he doesn't take kindly to being betrayed."

Daryl's eyes narrow.

"Exactly how much did you give him?"

"One million," she replies, "he would have gotten another million, after."

"Fuck," Daryl breathes.

"We hired him because we needed a Dixon," she continues, "Merle wasn't our first choice, but he was the more… _available_ choice. He's unavailable. Unavailable with _our_ one million. So we'd like to offer you a deal-"

"Deal?" Daryl interrupts, "Look, lady, I don't owe you shit."

"One million upfront," she ignores him, " _two_ million after. And we don't kill your brother."

Three _million_ dollars. He looks at this woman, the woman with the gun and the baby. And a contract, he notes as she hands it to him, the conditions outlined, clear as day.

 _Vegas_. _Heist_. _Rick Grimes_.

"You Lori Grimes? _The_ Lori Grimes."

She nods curtly and he skims the contract glancing up again.

"You know I'm retired?"

"Everyone's retired," Lori smirks, "until they're not. You got a price, Dixon?"

"Five million," he quirks his eyebrow, "and a night with the girl."

"Not a fucking chance, asshole!" the speaker crackles once more, the sister, he presumes.

"Five million," Lori echoes, "Beth is off the table."

Daryl smirks.

"Six million then."

Lori frowns.

"Beth, can you come in here, please?"

Moments later, the blonde appears. The sundresses are gone, replaced by tight jeans and a leather jacket. She makes a beeline for the baby, bending at the waist, picking up the small child with a practiced ease.

Her ass looks amazing in those jeans.

Lori spares him a nod and leaves the room.

"One million dollars, huh?"

"Huh?"

"Sex with me is worth one million dollars."

She's smirking. That same smirk she wore at the bar, teasing him about drink choices.

It's that smirk now that makes his blood boil.

"Don't flatter yourself, darlin'," he growls, "Just wanted to see what kind of people you were. You were a test."

"Did we pass?"

The door swings open again; it's Lori, with another file.

"Six million dollars," she tosses it in his direction, "and Merle's debt is forgiven. Do we have a deal?"

With his eyes still on Beth, he nods.

"Yeah. We do."

 **.**

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 **.**

 **.**

Everything about them screams _ragtag bunch of misfits_.

If there's one thing Daryl Dixon hates, it's that.

Because there's the ever-professional Lori Grimes, and her ever unstable husband Rick. Two polar opposites, calling the shots. Tara Chambler, the hacker, who is quick to tell him that she is _so much more_. Glenn Rhee, the getaway driver, forever attached by the lips to Maggie Greene, the elder of the grifting Greene sisters. And then there's Beth.

Daryl doesn't have much patience for confidence men. Never has, never will. All that flash, all that glitz. They're cubic zirconium posing as diamonds. Smoke and mirrors. All style, no substance. Chameleons. Changing their skin so much they don't even know who they are underneath it all.

"Is this all?" Daryl looks around, "Is this the team?"

"Yes."

Rick is dangerously quiet, keeps his answers short. Lets his wife do the talking.

"You need more muscle," he says bluntly, "and these blue prints? You can't dismantle million-dollar security system with a girl and a mac. This stuff takes-"

"Months?" Tara interrupts, "Inside knowledge? Yeah, we know."

"You are coming in at the very late stages," Lori sighs, "If we look disorganised, it's because your brother-"

"Royally fucked us over," Maggie snaps, "so catch up, Dixon."

"He's not the only ones," Glenn sighs, "If anything, Merle Dixon is the least of our problems."

"Who's the worst?" Daryl asks, only to be met with silence, "Ya'll just gonna ignore me?"

"Abraham Ford and Rosita Espinosa," Rick sighs, "they were poached at the early stages."

"By who?"

But he knows Rick's past. Knows these people, even if it's only by reputation alone. He knows about the skeletons in the man's closet.

Knows how he betrayed Michonne. And how she's out for blood.

 **.**

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 **.**

 **.**

He's been out of the game for five years, but the rules remain the same.

You never con a con artist. You simply stay out of one another's way.

He learns from Tara, that before Rick and Lori, she ran with a different crew. She met Glenn an age ago, at some kind of gaming convention. He started dating Maggie Greene and, through something she declares _pure coincidence_ , they become acquainted with Abraham, Rosita, and Eugene. And for a while, they were unstoppable.

She contributes their disbandment to the natural progression of time. People drift apart, priorities change. Some people are in the game for life, some people are after that one big score that will make them so rich that they can disappear.

That's what this is, apparently. The mother load.

"You think six million is it?" she scoffs, "if we pull this off, you can guarantee that that amount will be _tripled_."

"What are we stealing, exactly?" Daryl's eyes narrow.

Tara looks positively gleeful.

"Diamonds."

Diamonds. Of fucking course. Easier to transport than cash, easier to fence than art. More dangerous, too. High profile. One wrong move and they'll be running for the rest of their lives. Two wrong moves and they're looking at jail time.

Three wrong moves and you'd best bet they'd be dead.

"You have a buyer?" he asks, sceptical. He knows the rules, knows the plays. Knows that for every offer there's a counter offer. For every honest man there are five dirty ones waiting in the wings. Everyone's trying to get something for nothing and will go to the ends of the earth to do so. They won't hesitate to throw them under the bus. They won't hesitate to take the treasures and lock the doors and watch them burn behind them.

"Dale knows him."

Dale.

He's certain Tara means to be reassuring, but instead is sets him further on edge.

 **.**

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 **.**

A bit of back-story, if you will.

Daryl's old crew was, for a long time, the best in the game.

Was. _Were_. It's all past tense now.

Before Daryl retired, before Daryl took what money he had left to disappear, he lived and breathed the game. It was him and Merle, Shane, Andrea, and Carol. And Dale, calling the plays.

And for close to a decade, they were the unstoppable.

There was the big five bank heist of 1999, the sapphire shakedown of 2002. The lost Picasso job of 2004. And their final, failed job, the one that cost Shane his life and Carol her sanity and sent the Dixon brother's into hiding.

2005\. The one time they went into pharmaceuticals. And the last.

It would be fair to say that _Merle_ warned them all. Told them in his own way how he didn't like to mix business with pleasure and, dress it up however you want, drug running is a whole different game compared to fencing forgeries. Dale was against it from the start, and in the end it was him that put a stop to it, that bowed out in the middle of the job and tipped off the authorities. Never let it go unsaid that Dale was their moral compass. And maybe, in a way, they got what they deserved the moment they started thinking that their way was true north.

They played god. They tried to tip the playing field. They were in no way prepared for the consequences of their actions. Never even considered them. Because if they did, they'd know that the line between thief and terrorist is a very thin one indeed.

And they crossed it.

But it would have made them rich; that's all Shane and Andrea cared about. Would have made them notorious, something that inspired Merle to no end.

It would have saved Carol's daughter. Well, it could have. There's no way of knowing. She died, in the end.

Sometimes Daryl thinks that maybe if he had been better, faster, stronger, _smarter_ , they would have succeeded. Sophia would have gotten the operation, the experimental treatments, and the world-renowned doctors. Carol's daughter would have _lived._

They were fated to fail when so much was on the line.

And, let's face it; it's only a matter of time before your luck runs out.

 **.**

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Daryl arrives at the warehouse when they're vacating. They're inconspicuous enough - Glenn and Rick and Tara, dressed as movers, loading up the filing cabinets, wiping down the desks. The place reeks of bleach and they don't exchange a word, but they do a piece of paper.

It's an address in Senoia.

 _The Greene Farm_.

He knows a bit about Hershel Greene. Knows that he left the farm when he was sixteen, ran a good game until his old man died and he took that opportunity to get out, settle down. There are not a lot of honest men in their line of work, but Hershel Greene was one of the few.

He was partners with Dale for a long time. Met Josephine on a job and didn't see her until years later, when she showed up at the farm looking for her own out.

He married her. And they had Maggie.

They don't talk about the cancer that took her life. Or the car accident that took his second wife. Just as they don't talk about Shawn.

Truth be told, he doesn't know all that much about Shawn Greene.

He pulls up to the house a bit after the rented moving van. Beth Greene is standing on the porch, holding the baby. He hasn't seen her do much of anything else, now that he thinks about it.

 _That and seduce men in bars_.

It's not her role, though. That much is apparent. She's the background character, the maid or the waitress. The type of person people look at but don't _see_. Maggie is the distraction that opens the door. Beth slips right in.

"Hey," Glenn grabs his attention, "help us move this stuff into the barn?"

He gives a quick nod, grabbing some boxes, placing them where directed. It's a weird set up - Andrea preferred office spaces and Merle was always partial to motel rooms. The barn, however, is not unlike the warehouse. There are desks, the filing cabinet. The projector and screen, the playpen. He wonders momentarily why the Grimes' can't just get a sitter or something. Why they have to drag this poor kid everywhere they go.

"You excited, man?"

It's Glenn again, Glenn, who he worked with once, years ago, when Dale needed a driver and he needed the best. And in walked this guy looking more like the _Karate Kid_ and less like the _Transporter_. And sure, he got them out and got them out quick, but he was all nerves beforehand and threw up after.

In the end, it was one of their more successful jobs.

"Don't really get excited," Daryl shrugs, watching as Rick and Lori start spreading out maps and blueprints, "like to be zen."

"Zen," Glenn nods, repeating the word a few times, "yeah, I hear ya. Maggie says she always feels like she's gotta be talked down before something like this. She likes to be calm. Don't think she's ever really calm when Beth's involved, but she's a hell of a lot more cautious."

"Ain't a bad thing," Daryl shrugs and Glenn hums in agreement.

Cautious might not get you the score that dreams are made of, but it gets you out. Keeps you alive.

Shane wasn't cautious. And if the rumours are true, neither was Shawn Greene.

"How long she been doing this?" Daryl asks, and Glenn gives him a curious look, "Don't like working with rookies, ya know? Too eager."

"Oh," Glenn nods knowingly, "well this isn't her first rodeo, so to speak. I mean, she ran with us for a while, killed it in Paris during the Egyptian antiquities job. Hell, in Berlin, Maggie had the flu, so she really stepped up. She's got a real gift with languages."

"Why'd she stop?"

Glenn looks nervous and Daryl's eyes narrow, warning bells once again going off. There's a story here. A secret.

Daryl hates secrets.

"Why does anyone stop?"

It's not a real answer, but Daryl can see through his vague response.

You play with fire, and you get burned.

And in their profession, everyone has singed fingers.

 **.**

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 _Six million dollars_.

He thinks about it at night, when he's trying to fall asleep on the lumpy sofa in the Greene family room. Thinks about it when he punches the pillow, as if a sudden bout of violence will make it comfortable.

 _Six million dollars_.

It's why he stays. Why he hasn't walked away.

Lori is a good grifter. Would have been a force to be reckoned with, back in the day. But she's a mother now, and she's a smart one. She's not going to leave her children motherless. So she runs point from a distance, and on one hand, she's good at the seeing the bigger picture. And on the other one, it's the smaller picture he worries about.

It's the small things that can go wrong. A security guard walking out of schedule, misinformation from a mark. Even the most accurate of sources can get it wrong and then they're fucked beyond belief. When a job relies on an inside man, your play is only as strong as the information you're fed.

In his experience, it's not a big catastrophe to be worried about, but a series of small ones, setting off a chain reaction that leads to consequences bigger than Ben-Hur.

Rick is confident, but not overly so, which is actually a comfort because confidence can lead to cockiness and cockiness can lead to a kind of blind sidedness where not everyone makes it home. He prefers wariness, every single time.

That's the thing though, he is so fucking _wary_ , to the point where he's seriously doubting if it's worth it. Because he doesn't know what it is about this crew, but he doesn't fully trust them. And then there's Merle, who might be an asshole, but he's an honest asshole. His brother knows better than anyone that there's no such thing as money for nothing and that he'll have to look over his shoulder for Rick Grimes at every turn. That ain't a life to live. That ain't a life worth living.

So if Merle ran, he'd have to have had a damn good reason.

And Daryl? He's got six million reasons to stay.

He gives up on sleep. Figures there's always tomorrow, and it isn't like they're doing much of anything at this farm. Tara calls it team building, but he's not about to be doing trust falls and human pyramids. Pulling on his jeans, throwing on a flannel shirt, he makes his way to the kitchen.

Hopefully the old man might have some booze around.

Sifting through the cupboards and pantry, he tries to be quiet but fails, when he hears footsteps behind him. Spinning around, he squints into the darkness, ready to attack if need be. It's only Beth, in sleep shorts and a crop top and smiling up at him, sleepily.

"Glad I'm not the only insomniac here."

"Lookin' for a drink," he mutters, ignoring her quip-like greeting.

"Daddy doesn't keep liquor in the house," she says quietly, and he sighs, remembering how Dale never liked them drinking on the job, said it was because he'd had more than a few near misses because of loose tongues and sloppy tactics.

"Come with me."

He barely hears her, but she loops her arm through his, entwining their fingers together, pulling him gently towards the kitchen door. It opens silently, and he closes it gently behind him. She drags him through the night, past the barn, and into the stable. She leaves him by the door and he thinks she's fumbling for the light switch when the place is lit up by the dim glow of a kerosene lantern.

"Close the door," she commands gently and he complies. She's swift, moves with a certainty that he wonders if she's always possessed. Maybe she learnt it from Maggie, maybe her daddy. She's a legacy, and sometimes in this business, it's a hindrance. He imagines that they've expected a lot from her. He imagines she delivers on some levels and fails on others. He imagines she surprises on many more.

Rummaging through a trunk full of horse blankets, she pulls from the bottom a jar filled with moonshine.

"Strong stuff for a little thing like you," he comments, not meaning to be overtly sexist, but not concerned that it came out that way either.

"One of my daddy's farm hands used to hide all his liquor here," she grins, teeth violently white in the lantern glow, "this is all that's left."

He opens the lid, takes a bit whiff. It's strong stuff. Quality stuff.

"It's good," she confirms, "you ain't gonna go blind or nothin'."

Sometimes, he thinks there isn't that much really worth seeing.

Taking a swig, the clear liquid burns down his throat. It is good, as good as the stuff Old Tom used to serve up, back when he was still serving up drinks. Takes another swig and it isn't long before his head starts to feel a bit fuzzy.

"You ain't gonna rufie me this time, girl?"

She doesn't reply, takes her own delicate sips, only coughing a couple of times. He thinks this might be who she really is, this quiet, thoughtful girl, her face as open as a book, every emotion flitting across her big, blue eyes.

"Merle didn't take off to Costa Rica," she says softly, swirling the liquid in the jar, "pretty sure he went to see Carol."

 _Carol_. She was never the same after Sophia died. Went to Vegas, bought a house. Did some consulting work for some casinos, because that's really the only kind of job someone like them can get. In the shadows of the neon lights and poker tables.

"You know she's teaching kids?"

"What you mean, teachin'?"

"Taking in foster kids, teaching them to con," Beth explains calmly, "daddy sent me to her, when I was starting off. She's one of the best."

"Why'd she call Merle?" Daryl demands, "Why'd he take off with the money?"

"She needed it," Beth shrugs, "don't know what for though."

"How in the hell do you know all this?"

She shrugs. Honest to goodness shrugs and he wonders if she's real or if she's playing him. But she was taught by Carol, and maybe this is the biggest piece of information he now possesses in figuring her out.

 _The perfect lie always has an element of truth_.

"People don't notice me," she says softly, "people don't look up when I enter a room."

He thinks that's a bit ridiculous. Bull shit, even.

When she's in a room, she's all he can see.

 **.**

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 **.**

"Daryl can't fly."

He hates how they speak about him like he's a burden. Like these people aren't wanted by the authorities or anything.

Okay, they aren't. They just haven't been identified yet.

He's still in hiding, still on the run. Can't take that risk.

"I can make my own way there," he folds his arms across his chest, "suits me better, anyway."

"Beth can go with him," Maggie volunteers her sister, who looks up, equally surprised.

"Maggie, I was just going to catch the bus-"

"Daryl's driving," Maggie interrupts, "and I'd prefer if you didn't travel alone."

"I'd prefer it too," Hershel notes, giving Daryl a stern look, "you don't mind, do you Daryl?"

He does mind. Minds a great deal. Because he isn't some kind of chaperone, just as he isn't some kind of chauffeur.

In Rick's eyes, it's decided, no room for arguments. Tells them to head out in the morning, that they'll finish up here and fly out the day after tomorrow. Set up early. Tells them to call them when they arrive. And if they don't arrive, he better not see them if they want to live.

"We'll be there," Daryl mutters, fixing him with a glare that goes ignored.

 _Six million dollars_.

He chants that figure in his head.

 **.**

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 **.**

He doesn't ask her why she doesn't fly.

Figured she did once. Jobs in Paris, Berlin, Sydney. She's been all over the world, and not by a luxury liner.

She's a quiet travel companion, which he's grateful for. Packs light, just a duffle bag tossed in the back of his truck. Listens to music for the first few hours. Plays on her phone for a few more.

"I'm sorry," she tells him, not looking up from her game, "I know you don't like me."

"Like you well enough, girl," he shrugs, keeping his eyes on the road.

"I tricked you," she glances up quickly, "that ain't a foundation for trust."

"You ain't the first woman in my life to con me," Daryl says gruffly, "probably won't be the last."

"I didn't want to," she adds, "if that makes a difference."

"Why did you?"

"Maggie was gonna," she sighs, "but Carol said that you would like me better, which I found pretty hard to believe."

"Carol?"

"Yeah," she places her phone away, resting her feet on the dashboard, skirt riding up her thighs, "did you? I mean, if I were just a girl, not a grifter, and you were just a guy, not a mark, would you have liked me? Would you have wanted to take me home?"

"You're dangerous, you know that girl," he says heavily, eyes straying from the road to hers.

"I'm honest," she replies.

With a sudden twist of the steering wheel, he drives onto the shoulder of the road, throwing the car into park. With the truck still running he looks her straight in the eye, hands clenching the wheel.

"Same thing," he murmurs, "what the hell are you?"

Maybe it's rhetorical. Maybe he's not looking for her answer, maybe he wants to figure her out himself.

Maybe there's not even anything to figure out.

But he's got three days to _try_.

 **.**

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	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Thank you so much for the wonderful response to the first part. It truly was lovely to read your reviews and see the alerts pop up in my email. Enjoy part two.

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He remembers his first job like it was yesterday.

It wasn't anything complicated. A basic moving scam, that Merle brought him in on when he won a truck in a bet. He was eighteen and all he really did was the lifting.

Merle was the one that did the talking.

It was like that for a while. Merle the showman, the natural grifter. He could be your best friend one moment, and your worst nightmare the next. He could turn it on and off like the flick of the switch.

You ask Merle, and he'll call it the glory days of the game. People were more trustful, gullible, naïve. The days when your everyday Joe didn't know the three card monty, or the fiddle game. When the Internet was new and the scams were ripe and had he been a smarter man, he could have made his fortune and retired years ago.

But that's Merle. He isn't a big picture kind of guy. Never liked to work too hard, preferred short cons to the long. Easier to get the money and get out.

He still got busted though. Wasn't discrete, Merle, made a few enemies and even when he skipped town, someone always knew where he was.

It should be noted that Merle met Carol first.

Well, Merle met Ed first.

But no one talks about Ed anymore. Some secrets are best left buried.

Literally.

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This isn't a movie.

You'd best remember that.

The first day on the road is small talk and attempts at car games that generally end with him snapping at her. She's not fazed, simply rolls her eyes and slips on her headphones. Ignores him for an hour until she's decided he's calmed down.

In short, she's relentless.

They're in Arkansas when they stop for the night. They find some halfway decent motel, two rooms, because they're not runaways on some kind of road trip; she's got her daddy's credit card after all.

There's a pizza place around the corner. They split a large Hawaiian, but she eats mostly garlic bread. They sit cross-legged on the floor beside his bed, the box between them.

"You worried about the job?"

He gives her a weird look.

"I got a reason to be worried?"

She shrugs.

"Never worked with Rick before. Daddy wasn't all too thrilled about it, especially after that business with Michonne."

Oh yeah. The business with Michonne.

"You trust your sister?" he asks her bluntly, "You trust Glenn? Tara? Things go south you stick with who you trust. They'll get you out alive."

She fiddles with the hem of her shirt.

"I trust you."

"You shouldn't."

"You ever betray anyone?"

Daryl shakes his head.

"Do you trust us?"

"Don't trust anyone these days."

She's quiet after that.

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

He first met Michonne in Saint Petersburg.

Let it be said that he hates Russia. Hates the cold, hates how everyone seems to be ex-KGB or some shit. There was never a Russian job that ran smoothly. Last time he was there, he ended up with a broken nose and nearly lost his fingers to frostbite.

So yeah. Fuck Russia.

He liked the vodka though. Liked this dingy little bar near his dingy little hotel. Some old Russian grandmother served it to him in overflowing glasses. Would glare at him as he threw down his rubles, and refuse to accept any kind of tip.

It was the tail end of a job. It was done, he was nursing a couple of broken ribs and a sprained wrist and he drew the short straw of having to fly out last. He didn't know anyone, wasn't expecting anyone to recognise him. So when a woman sat next to him and handed him a folder, safe to say, he was surprised.

No one knows a lot about Michonne. Andrea knows bits and pieces, told him once they had a common enemy.

Well, he guesses they still _do._

Brian/Phillip/'The Governor' was more than your typical scumbag. Scumbags are predictable; scumbags use the same tactics over and over again. Scumbags, he can handle, because his father was scumbag and Merle, on more than one occasion, has walked that very fine line.

 _The Governor_ is just fucked in the head.

There's nothing more frightening than an unhinged enemy. When his wife and daughter were killed in a home invasion, he went from up and coming criminal kingpin, to joker levels of insane. There was no negotiating. No bartering. He kidnapped loved ones and if you didn't play ball he killed them.

Hell, rumour was that half the time they wound up dead anyway.

So when two young boys were kidnapped, both parents met the demands. Only one was found alive. And only just.

Michonne lost her son that day. And Rick's lived.

There is no rhyme or reason to madness.

When Daryl opens the folder, the photo staring back at him is no stranger. He'd recognise the dead eyes anywhere. That look of collected evil. The same kind of evil that could kill someone's child.

"You want me to rough him up, or something?"

"No," Michonne hisses, "I want you to kill him."

But Daryl back then is colder than the Russian winter. Scoffs at her request, and slides back the folder.

"I ain't a hired killer. Try Joe and his lot."

He doesn't see her again for three years. He was 'retired', in the way that people in their line retire – get out before they get caught. When they do cross paths, it's at Old Tom's, funnily enough, carrying the all-too familiar folder.

"Well then," he smirks, "who you want offed this time?"

He flips open the folder and his blood runs cold.

Because staring back at him is the face of Rick Grimes.

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

They use a lot of burner phones in their line of work.

Easy to come by, you go to any cheap electronics store and you can pick one up, no trouble. Tough in the age of the smart phone, when those models cost a pretty penny, but he's never liked then anyway. Doesn't need "4G" or "wi-fi". Not when the government's monitoring their shit as it is.

Beth has a burner phone. She's not an idiot; he'll give her that. Also has an iPhone, complete with a glittery pink case and a grating ringtone to match. She takes too many photos and when she asks his opinion on "filters" he doesn't bother to contain his eye roll.

"You ever think about how we've been all over the world, and now we're driving through Oklahoma?"

She's got her feet on the dash again, the navy polish beginning to chip, but only just. It was distracting for a while, like the way she would mouth along to her music and the way she'd stretch out like a cat. But after twenty hours in a car, not much she does anymore fazes him.

"Let's do something fun!"

Well, maybe she can.

"Gotta be in Vegas, girl," Daryl grumbles, "ain't got time for _fun_."

"Come _on_ ," she pouts, "you been huffing and puffing and _glaring_ at me since we hit the road. Show me some tricks!"

"You know em' already," Daryl scoffs, "anyway, I don't do that kind of shit."

"Carol doesn't teach those," Beth sighs, "well, she didn't teach _me_. Daddy wanted me to learn to manipulate a mark, blend in. And that's what she taught me."

"You're a grifter who doesn't know how to grift?" he looks at her, disbelievingly. She shakes her head, eyes big and wide. "Fine."

"Fine?" Beth perks up.

"Yeah," Daryl pulls suddenly into a car park, "fine."

"What, now?" she peers out the window, looking at the grimy neon sign.

"Why not," he then glances down at her, his eyes taking in her jean shorts and cropped tee, "put on your boots and take out your hair. You ever picked someone's pocket?"

"Of course," Beth rolls her eyes and he frowns.

"Don't sass me, girl, was just askin'."

"Sorry."

"Called the 'jealous husband'. And before you start, I didn't name it, alright."

"Wasn't gonna say a thing," she protests and he hums in response.

"Okay, so you go in, find your mark – and be smart about it. Think married man on business. Don't go findin' some guy twice my size. Flirt with him and make the poor fool think he's got a chance. Keep him busy for about half an hour."

"And you?"

"I'll come in, threaten to rough him up, you steal his wallet."

"That's it?"

She looks almost underwhelmed.

"What, you expected something showier?"

"No," Beth sighs, "I just thought there'd be more… _technique_."

"Ain't no real _technique_ to short cons," Daryl rolls his eyes, "it's all about makin' a big enough scene."

"Okay," she gives him a tight smile, "okay."

And like that he watches as she makes her way into the bar. Gives her thirty minutes, as promised. Inside it's like any bar in any town and there's something about it that is comforting. Instantly, he knows the layout, can read the bartender, can get a handle on the other patrons. There's a crowd, but not a big one, so he spots her straight away - perched on a barstool, leaning into her mark.

Much like she did to him.

Maybe he lied a bit when he told her he was okay with her. Maybe for a split second he had a feeling that was genuine, that was real. But like everything else in his life, that was not the case. It was all scripted, memorised, committed to memory.

"Hey man," Daryl growls, gripping the mark's shoulder, "what do you think you're doing?"

"Oh my god, Daddy!"

Wait, what? _Daddy_?

"Daddy?" the mark stutters, "look, man, she told me she was 21!"

"Told you the ID was fake, boss," the bartender mutters, watching the scene unfold.

"I'm so sorry daddy," she's crying now, big, fat, genuine tears, "I know I'm supposed to be at school-"

"Wait, school?" the mark exclaims, "How the fuck old are you?"

"She's 16, you sick fuck!" Daryl growls and Beth hiccups, "I'm calling the cops-"

"Look, sir, please," he pleads, "let's not get the cops involved, look, I've got five grand out back, we can forget about this-"

"I can't breathe here, daddy," Beth whimpers, "this town, I feel like I'm suffocating. Evan has a lake house he said he'd take me away and I know he's older but I think we belong together…"

Daryl glares at the man, pulling out his cell phone.

"Alright, fifteen grand," the mark rubs his head, eyes wide with panic, "I swear to you that I won't talk to your daughter again."

He walks out of that bar with fifteen grand. Cash. Fifteen grand and his heart pounding and Beth is beaming at him with tear stained cheeks.

"Gir _l_ ," he breathes once they're out of the town limits, highway stretching out in front of them.

"Is this what you used to do with Merle?"

Her tone isn't accusing, isn't judgmental. She's curious and maybe a hint confused. Like she's trying to work him out, to understand him as a whole and dissect him into his original pieces.

"Not like this."

Never scored fifteen grand from a short con. Never scored much of anything, when it was just the two of them.

Just a redneck asshole with a bigger asshole for a brother.

But he suspects she knows this already.

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

They stay the night in New Mexico. This time, they go out for dinner. Nothing fancy, just a local diner, but the food is good and the waitresses are cheerful. Beth beams back and they call her 'sweetie' and him 'hon'.

He supposes it could be construed as nice. In a quaint, small town way.

"I always kind of wanted to work in a diner," she muses and he scoffs.

"Stop it," she sighs, "this isn't a 'woe is me' sort of thing. It's just, when I think about my life, well, a different version of my life, I sort of think of something like this."

"Rude customers and grease stains?"

"Simplicity," she says earnestly, "normality. Safety."

"Ain't nothin' in this world that's safe," Daryl shrugs, "you should know that by now, girl."

"Yeah," she sighs, "guess I do."

"That why you don't fly?"

She doesn't answer him. Plays with the saltshaker and dips her fries into the ketchup, swirling them around her plate.

"My first job was in Paris, you know," she tells him quietly, carefully, "I was nineteen and Carol and I were…well, it doesn't matter. I was nineteen and it was the first time I had been out of the country. I was working as an Au Pair for this English businessman and his American wife. They had a baby called Chloe and she was the sweetest thing. She loved pears and passionfruit gelato and she had this toy bunny called Max."

"Sounds like Carol got you a _normal_ job," Daryl notes, eyebrow raised.

"Let me finish, okay," she sighs, "I looked after the baby. I collected information. Bugged their home phones, went through their laptops. I'd report my findings to Carol and after six months of this, she told me to hand in my notice. Bought me a ticket to Spain, and from Spain, a ticket home. Told me to tell them I had fallen in love and I was following my heart, and for all they knew I was just another teenage romantic."

"Let me guess," Daryl steals some of her fries, "the business went under?"

"Yeah," Beth whispers, "Like, big time. I think the husband went to jail for it. But I got too close, you know. I cared about the family too much. And sometimes I think about little Chloe, with a broken family and I wonder if she's okay. Or if I destroyed her childhood."

"You can't think like that, Beth," Daryl says gruffly, her head snapping up to meet his gaze, "you can't think like that or it will destroy you."

"I know," Beth sighs, "that's why I don't run the grift. That's all Maggie. I'm a side character. I'm someone no one remembers."

 _How?_ He can't help but ask himself, _how could no one remember you?_

"I don't fly because the last time I flew, it was to bring my brother's body home from Paris," Beth lets out a shuddering breath, "I don't want to do this anymore, Daryl."

"Do what?"

" _This_." Beth's voice takes on an exasperated tone, eyes blazing, "I want to get out."

 _Out._ This girl, this girl who just swindled fifteen grand, this girl who managed to con _him_ , this girl who is at the top of her game, who is a goddamn legacy is asking _him_ to help her get out of the game.

Because he did it before. And she knows he's going to do it again.

"Alright," he sighs, rubbing his hand across his eyes, "yeah, alright."

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

It took him six tries to go "straight". The longest stretch was fourteen months, during Merle's stint in jail. When his brother got out, he tried to resist the pull but it was hard. So hard.

They don't tell you that it's not getting out that's the hard part, but staying there. There's always a new job, a new score. A new chance to make history.

And, for the most part, it's an easier alternative. It's hard to get a job when you have a large gap on your resume. No one cares if you can speak rudimentary Russian, or can crack a combination safe, or know staunch the blood flow from a bullet wound.

So they fall back into old habits, safe habits, and sometimes a knife wound is more preferable to scouring the classifieds.

He thinks he understands her. Maybe. It took him eighteen years to get out and six million dollars to draw him back in. But he knows that whatever happens, however this job goes down, this is the last one. He's got his cabin in the woods. He's got his bike and crossbow. He's got his solitude and privacy and soon he'll have six million dollars and he'll live the rest of his life in peace.

That's all he's wanted anyway.

Carol told him once that they're never really 'free' of this life. That no one place is safe for too long, and sooner or later, you have to run. They can't forget, even when the dust has settled, even when they're out of the news, that they are criminals, that they are wanted by the law. They live a cowboy life, they live a life glamorised by film and television. But they are not the good guys. Not in the slightest.

You run and you hide. You go to jail. You choose exile. You put your life and the life of those you love on the line with every job, with every person you cross. You put your faith, your trust into criminals. You wait for the other shoe to drop.

You _wait_.

Beth wants to get out and then what? Will she blow through her savings like so many in their line of work do? Will she try to slip back into society's fold, play the last six years off like some kind of adventure around the world, like just any other girl her age?

It's easy to get out, to walk away.

The trick is being able to not look back behind you.

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

It's when they're driving through Arizona that her phone chimes. She glances at it, brow furrowed, before she pulls out her burner phone, punching the digits on her iPhone into the other.

"Carol?"

Daryl can't help but eavesdrop, watching as the younger woman gnaws on her lip, fingers curling into the holes in her knitted sweater. She doesn't say much, mutters "okay" and "yes" and "no" and "Rick Grimes". Frowns some more and gestures for Daryl to pull over. He does so and as soon as the engine's off, she thrusts the phone towards him.

"She wants to talk to you."

Cautiously, he accepts the phone, stares at it for a few seconds before pressing it to his ear.

"Yeah?"

" _It's been five years and that's how you greet me?"_

It's Carol all right. Carol, with her ever teasing tone, pushing him like only she knows how. It's familiar and comforting and worrying, all at the same time.

"You know I ain't one for pleasantries."

" _I do,"_ she sighs down the line and he can tell her smile is forced, _"So you know I wouldn't contact you if it weren't important."_

"How'd you know I was with Beth?" he demands, glancing over at the girl, who picks at a thread in her jeans.

" _Call it a lucky guess. Listen, Daryl…"_

He's anxious now, picking up the hesitancy in her tone. It's big, big enough that it got Merle involved. So big, that she reached out to him after all this time.

"You know Rick wants Merle dead," he interrupts, "so whatever you've dragged him into I hope it was worth it-"

" _Someone's trying to kill me_."

"Carol…"

" _I needed Merle for protection."_

"And the money?"

" _Needed that too."_

"What the fuck for?"

She's quiet and he hates these silences. Knows how Carol operates, how she doesn't speak for the sake of speaking. She carefully measures her words and gives you only the information you need.

The perfect lie always has an element of truth.

" _You don't need to know, Daryl. The less I tell you, the safer you are."_

He sighs, rubs his face.

"What do you need?"

" _I need to see you,"_ she tells him, voice wavering, but only slightly, _"and Beth."_

When he hangs up, Beth's looking at him nervously, blue eyes a storm of worry.

"It'll be okay," he grunts, and she sighs, and looks out the window.

"Yeah. Okay."

And for not the first time, he wishes he had never uttered a word to the pretty blonde girl at the bar.

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

They arrive in Vegas at sunset.

It's almost pretty, the way this neon town lights up at night. When the sun sets and the town in cast into artificial light and shadow. How it resembles something dream like and wondrous, like a place where dreams come true. A place where your _own_ dreams could come true.

They're staying at the hotel next door to where the job is going down, which he's not a fan of. Prefers spaces with less CCTV surveillance, for a start. Less people as well.

He checks them in under their aliases and is only slightly annoyed when they get a free room upgrade. Beth squeals and acts the part, gripping his arm and pressing close to his side and he tries so hard not to flinch.

Fails, clearly, because the second they step into the elevator, she pulls away.

"Sorry," she murmurs and he shrugs.

"S'alright."

In the room, she drops down on the bed, kicks off her boots. It's spacious, he gives them that, and maybe they thought they were newlyweds or some shit, because there's a bottle of champagne and some bubble bath and the whole thing makes him nervous because they never shared a room on the road and now Rick expects them to here, no problem.

She's texting on the burner phone when he steps out onto the small balcony for a quick smoke. He watches her out of the corner of his eye, her legs swinging in the air, propping herself up on her elbows. He hates how she's so beautiful, hates how he's now in charge of helping her.

Does Maggie know? Her father?

What would they do if they did?

"We're meeting them across town in a few hours," Beth tells him, rolling onto her back, "a karaoke club, they booked a private room."

"Karaoke?"

"Sound proof," she explains, "no cameras, cash payment, no questions."

When she puts it like that, it's the perfect space.

"Don't even think about makin' me sing somethin'," he warns, and she laughs, eyes lighting up.

"When we go home, I'm going to drag you along to karaoke night at Old Tom's, Daryl Dixon," she grins, "and then I'll make you sing."

"You're gonna have to roofie me again," he smirks, "'cause there's no way in hell I'm gettin' up there sober."

"I think I could make you do a log of things," Beth teases, "without being under the influence."

He doesn't doubt that for a second, this siren of a girl, and for every moment he spends with her he feels as if she's leading him closer and closer to the edge. And sometimes he thinks he wants to fall, fall with her, fall into her. Knows she can't 'fix' him, but maybe that's okay. Maybe he doesn't want to be fixed. Maybe he can't be fixed. Maybe he's never really been broken.

"You know this is my first Vegas job?" Beth tells him, jumping off the bed, "Can you believe that? I've worked all over the world, but never Vegas."

"You ain't missin' out on much," he shrugs, "just like any other casino town."

"I think it's romantic," she smiles, "you can be whatever you want to be here. What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas? Makes it sound like the possibilities are infinite."

 _Infinite_. Only she would see it that way, this tacky desert town, as some kind of modern wonderland.

"Tomorrow night," he says carefully, "nine o'clock. You meet me here and I'll show you Vegas."

The way her eyes light up, you'd think she'd won the jackpot.

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

He didn't think there'd actually _be_ karaoke.

But Glenn's perpetuating every stereotype and singing a very off-key version of _Stairway to Heaven_ and Maggie's cringing, rubbing her temples. Beth's flipping through the songbook, and sure, it wouldn't be the worst thing to hear her sing, but they only have the room for two hours and they need to run through everything, they have to get their shit together.

He isn't going into this without a back up plan, or four.

Rick passes them each a duffle bag while Glenn's finishing his song. Glances at it quickly and there's a security guard outfit, a key pass, and a handgun. There's a copy of the blueprints that he's already memorised and photographs of the mark and his associates.

"That's Caesar Martinez," Daryl holds up a photo, eyes narrowed, "the Governor's head of security. Thought the mark was some hotel owner."

"It is," Lori answers vaguely, "Blake is our buyer."

"He's our inside man, isn't he?" Daryl demands, "Are you insane? Why the fuck would you do business with the man that tried to kill your son?"

"We have our reasons," Rick snaps, "which are none of your concern."

"He's on our team," Tara says quietly, "I know he's insane, but my sister has been working with him for months. We pull this off and it's the biggest diamond heist in history."

"So what, I gotta work with Martinez?"

"You and Beth," Rick corrects, "and myself."

"He's gonna cross us, you know that right?" Daryl shakes his head with disbelief, "You ain't gonna see a single cent."

"He's not going to cross us," Rick replies calmly.

Daryl scoffs.

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because," Rick's says quietly, "I'm going to kill him."

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

Daryl's killed four people.

Four. It doesn't sound like many, when you say it aloud. But that's four people that aren't breathing, four families that mourned them. Four bodies buried beneath the ground, or, in one case, at the bottom of the ocean.

The difference between him and Rick? He's never set out to kill anyone.

It was necessary. He'd say that about all four. Someone had to live and someone had to die. And he was going to make sure that he made it through the night.

Beth's quiet that night. The cab ride back to the hotel is silent and when they reach their room, she dumps her bag onto the floor and heads straight for the bathroom. He hears the water running and with a sigh, he sits on the bed, looking out at the light up town below them.

This is a bad idea. This is the worst idea.

They're going to end up dead.

"Fuck, Merle," he breathes, "what the fuck have you gotten me into?"

He's so lost in thought that he doesn't register the shower turning off. Doesn't register the bathroom door opening and closing. Doesn't register her until the mattress sinks under her weight beside him.

"We got two days," she whispers, "I don't know how this job is going to go, but we've got two days. And we should make the most of them."

Her hand finds his and their fingers entwine. On instinct, he squeezes hers gently, and her head rests against his shoulder.

Two days. And this job, live or die, will be their last.

 **.**

 **.**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** I am terrible. This took longer to finish than I ever thought and I feel terrible. TERRIBLE. I imagine maybe one chapter after this and maybe this year? Who know?

Anyway, I hope you enjoy. xx

* * *

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

Carol's house is perfect in the way that it's almost identical to every other house in the development. Rendered brick, two-car garage, a couple of bikes on the porch. She's cultivated a cover of normality, wearing cardigans and aprons, baking cookies and smiling at neighbours.

No one gives her a second glance. Nothing about her, about her life, is remarkable.

"The girls are at their acrobatic class," Carol places a plate of cookies on the kitchen table, pours them each a glass of lemonade, "Carl is at his programming tutorial."

Some times it's like the game has changed so much that he thinks he might be playing by an outdated set of rules.

"Didn't come here for lemonade, Carol," Daryl snaps. It's a bit harsh, but he doesn't have time for games.

Carol sighs, slipping into the chair across from them.

"It's been five years, Daryl. You think you can allow me a few minutes of pleasantries?"

There's an edge in her voice. A tiredness. And when he stops glaring at her, it's then he takes a moment to glance around the house. At the seemingly inconspicuous objects. A baseball bat under the couch. A baby gate, but no sign of a baby. Backpacks by the front door.

"What's going on, Carol?"

And judging by Beth's question, she notices it too.

Carol's expression grows hard.

"Nothing I can't handle."

Daryl wants to call bullshit. Wants to point out every single make shift weapon and rant on about how this is a house belonging to a woman that's _scared_. But that's not fair, and that's not who Carol is. Hasn't been her for over a decade now.

She plays a good act. But she ain't _meek._

"Your phonecall-"

"A moment of weakness," Carol interrupts, "I'm sorry you came out all this way, but it is so lovely to see you both. How is your mother, Beth? Well, I hope?"

She freezes, Beth does. Reaches into her handbag and pulls out a gun and Daryl does the same, eyes darting around the room.

"I need to use the bathroom," Beth swallows thickly and they both follow Carol's gaze to the basement door.

"Of course, dear."

"I'd hold it, if I were you sweetie."

It doesn't matter; any kind of upper hand they had, lost the moment they walked through the door. Because in that moment Joe, a man Daryl had hoped to never cross paths with for the rest of his life, walks through the front door, munching on an apple. And it's the clambering of footsteps ascending the stairs of the basement that break the tense silence, only to bring with them a more dangerous one.

Also brings with them a bloody and battered Merle Dixon.

"Got ourselves a Dixon family reunion, boys," Joe hoots, his cronies joining in on the laughter.

"What the fuck do you want, Joe?" Daryl demands.

"I'm actually after Ed."

Beth's face is etched with confusion.

"Ed's dead."

"Sorry, Princess," Joe chuckles, "Ed Peletier is very much alive."

.

.

.

.

So Merle met Ed in a dingy bar in some Georgian backwoods town.

Well, Merle met Ed, and Ed met the base of Merle's empty beer bottle.

There was blood and stitches and, after the glass had been swept up, there was a job offer.

Merle's always preferred to do business like that. Violence in place of a handshake. Dark corners instead of fluorescent lights. Thought you could trust a man after he'd taken a swing at you. Figured once you knew their intentions, you knew their weaknesses as well.

Ed's weakness was his temper.

And his penchant to beating his wife and child.

Funny enough, their first and last job with Ed was Daryl's first Vegas job. A gambling con, which is high risk and high reward and, frankly, any job you don't need a passport for is too close to home.

Ed's plan was good. Too good, but Merle's not one to focus on the developmental stages. Doesn't give a shit about the author.

Until Carol. Until Sophia.

Daryl doesn't have a great recall of the job itself. He spent half the time in the motel room, wishing he were somewhere else, with anyone else. Didn't like Ed Peletier, or the haunted look in his wife's eyes, or the frightened one in his daughter's. Didn't like the memories it stirred up.

Neither did Merle, as it happened.

In the end, the job went south. The plan was good, but Ed was shit, and they ran. Drove to the middle of the desert, him, Ed, Merle, and Carol. Drove for hours, until Merle decided to stop.

Made everyone get out. Took from the trunk a rifle and a shovel. Threw the shovel at Ed, the rifle at Carol, and told the man to _start diggin'._

The thing about Merle? He's not one to rush to the aid of damsels in distress. But Carol was never that, not really. She was a wife that had had enough, a wife with an opportunity. A wife who wanted her husband dead.

It was Carol that pulled the trigger. It was Merle buried him.

They drove away with blood on their hands and a weight lifted from their shoulders.

.

.

.

.

"I keep tellin' ya, ya fuckin' wrong," Merle laughs, until one of Joe's men punches him in the gut. He coughs and splutters, face turning red, "I buried the bastard myself."

Joe throws a couple of photos onto the table.

"A source of mine spotted him very much alive in Atlantic City about six months ago."

Daryl peers at the photos. They're shit, but it's Ed Peletier, looking very much alive.

"How the fuck is that possible?" Daryl mutters, shaking his head.

"Man's a cockroach," Joe shrugs, "they'll survive anything."

"Alive or dead," Carol snaps, "I haven't seen him since the night I shot him. Now y'all got your money. So get the hell out of my house."

Laughing, Joe takes a seat at the kitchen table, helps himself to a cookie.

"I like you Carol," he grins, "I've always thought you were a smart woman, just with shitty choice in men. Though maybe you Dixons must have some kind of redneck charisma. Baby brother here managing to snag Beth Greene and all."

"Yeah," Merle interrupts, "it's the huge Dixon co-"

Another punch, harder this time, has Merle doubling over in pain.

"Where's Ed?" Joe yells, drawing his gun, pointing it at Merle, "Where the fuck is Ed?"

"He's dead!" Carol screams.

Joe cocks the weapon.

"I think we've established that's not true!"

"He's in the basement!"

Joe pauses, lowering his gun.

"He was alive," Carol sighs heavily, "he found me. And now he's dead. We made sure of it."

"What, you check for a pulse this time?"

"Don't need to when a man's missing half his skull."

One of Joe's buddies scoffs.

"Didn't see no body in the basement, Joe."

Joe heaves a sigh.

"Did you check the freezer?"

His question goes unanswered.

"Baby brother, you can come with me," Joe waves his gun, "I don't want any surprises while I'm gone."

He's almost grateful for the change in scenery, doesn't so much like Joe pointing his gun at Beth. Not that he's looking forward to the massacre awaiting him in the basement.

"So what brings you back to Vegas, Daryl?"

Joe's small talk is the worst, but he's learnt it's best just to answer the damn questions than to fight it.

"A job."

"Gotta be a pretty big job to pull you out of retirement."

"Hmm."

"Or maybe it's the pretty company you keep-"

He's rendered speechless once he opens the freezer door. Hell, the sight of it almost makes Daryl want to throw up.

Nestled between the frozen vegetables and ice-cream, is the dismembered limbs of Ed Peletier.

"Holy fucking shit."

Holy fucking shit is right.

"She's insane," Joe shakes his head, "your brother's bitch is fucking insane."

He's not listening. Not when he's halfway up the stairs.

"Is this what you needed Merle's help for?" he growls, pointing aggressively, "Is this the reason Rick Grimes wants my brother dead? Because you needed his help to cut up your dead husband?"

"Daryl!" Beth exclaims.

"Shut up!" Daryl yells, "And you," he turns his attention to Merle, "I should beat the shit out of you myself, getting involved in _this_."

"I gotta side with Daryl here," Joe appears in the doorway, "this is too many levels of fucked up. We're out of here. Ed Peletier is dead. And I don't fancy going out the way he did."

Joe's men release Merle, who collapses to the ground.

"Thanks for the cookies, Carol," Joe tips a non-existent hat, "and the money."

And like that, they're gone.

The four of them are silent, for a while. Daryl still feels like throwing up, and Beth looks paler than usual. The only one maintaining some semblance of composure is Carol, who heaves a sigh and stands from her seat.

"Kids, you can come out now!"

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

The 'kids' are two blonde girls and Carl Grimes, who descend the stairs quickly, weapons in hand.

The youngest of the three drops her weapon to her side, visibly relaxing. Merle throws her a look that could only be described as _stern_.

She quickly raises her weapon once more.

"It's clear," Carol informs them, and the girl throws a glance at Merle, who nods in return, before running forward to embrace Carol. Carl and the other girl are more hesitant, eyes still scanning the room, staying firmly in place.

"Hey Beth," Carl smiles shyly, a hint of a blush spreading across her cheeks.

Daryl almost feels sorry for the kid.

"Hi Carl," she greets him warmly.

Sighing loudly, the older girl flops down on the sofa.

"I could have taken them," she frowns, "you _know_ I could have."

The statement is directed more at Merle, than Carol.

"Three dead and then what, girlie?" Merle asks dryly, "We all hack up some more bodies and put them in the freezer?"

"She did this?" Daryl's jaw practically drops.

"The joints are the weakest part of the human body, you know," the girl deadpans, rolling her eyes.

"Jesus Christ, Merle."

It's become apparent, now. While one brother chose exile, the other chose a road least likely.

He followed Carol. He became a _teacher_.

"Did you know this?"

Daryl directs this question at Beth, who had, for a spell, been a pupil of Carol's and spent some time in this very house.

"He was around, but he wasn't 'around'," Beth explains carefully, "came and went, mostly."

"Spent a lot of time in Paris, back then," Merle shrugs, as if it's common knowledge, "working and shit."

"And now?"

Now? Now he's got three young protégés. Now, he's got a girl hanging off his every word, serious or not. Now, he's taking point while Carol's stepping back.

"I'm getting old, Daryl."

It's said with such a tired resignation, that Daryl almost feels for him. He loves this life, _lives_ for this life, and slowly he's being regulated to the sidelines.

"I ain't a point man," he shrugs, "I can't sit back and call the plays. You know that. Think of this as my contribution to future generations. A mentor of sorts."

"You're allowing this?"

Carol's lips are pressed together tight, up until now letting the brother's have it out.

"Kids, will you give us a moment?"

With a huff, the older girl storms out of the room, Carl following more calmly. The youngest passes slowly, and Merle reaches over to ruffle her hair.

"She's not like the others," Carol sighs, "Lizzie, she's… _different_."

Not a good different, clearly.

"I need Merle here. She listens to him."

A tiny sociopath. Who takes her cues from a man who walks the line far more often than one should. If this is the future then they all should be very, very, afraid.

Daryl sighs. He suddenly feels a million years old.

"So Ed's dead," he states flatly, "and since Joe has his money, he ain't gonna bother you any more. He's a lazy son of a bitch, and there ain't anything in it for him. Right, Merle?"

"Don't owe the man shit, if that's what you're asking," Merle throws him a glare, "though, if I may, Darylina, let me extend to you a warning. Getting involved with Rick Grimes is a bad idea. Man ain't right, you know?"

Daryl scoffs.

"I ain't the Dixon he wants dead."

"Even so," Merle continues, "everyone in this town knows that something's going down tomorrow night. Just as they know that the Governor's involved. The man doesn't outsource, Daryl. Not when he could just as easily do the job himself."

"Just be careful, pookie," Carol sighs, "both of you."

Nothing about the visit feels productive, he decides, as they make their way out of the nondescript estate.

In fact, he wishes they'd never came.

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

"Did you know?" Beth asks, breaking the silence as they drive back into the city, "about Carol and Merle?"

He had an inkling, many years ago. Might have been that first Christmas – their first _real_ Christmas, in New York with Carol and Sophia, where they spent the week generally freezing their asses off. Stayed in some ritzy penthouse suite, went ice-skating and to the Empire State building. It was in FAO Schwartz where he pulled his brother aside and asked him what the fuck was going on, that Merle simply shrugged, told him _the kid was sick_ and left it there.

It wasn't until later, a couple of jobs later, that he found out _how_ sick. All he remembered from that day in the toy store was the solemn way his brother told him, and then how he quietly walked away, joining Sophia and Carol by the _Big_ piano.

It was his best Christmas. And in a way, it was also his saddest.

"Knew they worked together," Daryl replies, "knew because Merle kept askin' if I wanted 'in'. Never really paid no mind to if they were _together_."

"I was in Paris," Beth reminisces, "met Carol at a bar one day, and he was there. First thing he said to me was _bonjour mademoiselle, voulez vous coucher avec moi ce soir,_ and Carol just rolled her eyes."

"Merle's an ass," Daryl shakes his head.

"It was nice, in a way," Beth smiles to herself, "his barely passable French, his accent sounding so much like home. Even if he was completely crass."

"You know Carol had a daughter?"

"Knew she died," Beth supplies, "knew she had cancer."

"Merle raised her, in a way," Daryl reveals quietly, "she called him _daddy_ and everything."

"Think he blames himself?"

"I think we all blame ourselves," he says sombrely, "think we'll always blame ourselves."

 _It's not your fault._ She doesn't say it, but he feels it, in the heaviness of her gaze and the way her hand finds his, and squeezes tight.

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

As they enter the city limits it hits him.

They are in Las Vegas. And they have fifteen thousand dollars.

"We're going out," Daryl says spontaneously, and Beth throws him a curious glance.

"We _are_ out."

"Nah, girl," he shakes his head, "I mean, we're gonna take that fifteen grand, and we're going _out_."

 _Out with a bang, out with a blaze of glory._

"Yeah," a slow smile lights up her features, "okay."

They agree to meet in the bar in a couple of hours. She needs something to wear, and he presses a couple of grand into the palm of her hand, enjoying the way her eyes widen in shock.

"For shoes and shit."

And it isn't hard, in this town, to pick up a suit, and have it tailored in a couple of hours. Just as it isn't hard to book a limo for the night, or make some last minute reservations at some of the most exclusive places.

Not when you know the right people. Not when you know the right price.

They have fifteen _grand_. Ain't hard to spend that kind of money in a place like this. Not that he was the kind of guy that ever really did.

And judging by her surprise, he'd bet his crossbow that she wasn't that kind of girl either.

But for one night they will be.

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

The moment he enters the bar he starts to think that maybe this isn't a good idea.

Because she's already waiting him, sitting in the corner, tapping away at her phone. There's about half a dozen men checking her out, but she's oblivious and her body language screams _not interested._

He allows herself to observe her, just for a moment, and no more. Perched on a stool, legs crossed, they look impossibly long. _Dangerously long_. The white dress is too short, too tight, too _perfect_ and he wonders if she's lying about never experiencing Vegas. The way she looks, the way she acts, it's like she memorised all the plays. Already knows her lines.

This isn't a dress rehearsal. It's closing night.

He muses that this is her _life_ ; seamlessly becoming whatever she needs to be. Cocktail waitress, cock tease, it doesn't matter. And maybe it's _never_ mattered.

The real Beth Greene, well, that's _all_ that matters.

She spots him then, glances up from her phone and her face just lights up. Saunters up to him and that's the only way to describe it. Sure and confident and straight out of Maggie Greene's playbook.

( _Carol said you'd like me better...)_

"You clean up nice," she smiles sweetly, straightening his tie. He smirks.

"So do you, Greene."

And she beams, twirling on the spot, laughter drawing curious glances.

"It's Vegas, baby," she giggles, "go big or go home."

 _Go big_. _Go home_.

What is home? Is home still an option at this point?

"Hey," Beth wraps her arm around his, "you gonna show me this town or what?"

The neon lights and the faux glamour. A giant stage show, the last great illusion. A city designed to keep secrets. A city that tells you to lose yourself and your inhibitions.

"Come on," he takes her hand, grasps it tight.

Leads her out into the night and all that awaits.

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

"You know this is illegal," she whispers, hanging off his arm, sipping her cocktail.

Sure, counting cards is illegal. It's also a skill.

A greater skill? Not getting caught.

"It's fine," Daryl murmurs, "not like these people think I can count anyway."

She giggles, pressing a kiss to his jaw. The patron beside him gives him a knowing smile.

"Lucky charm?" he smirks, eyes roaming up and down her figure.

"The luckiest," she presses herself against him, and Daryl tries to suppress a shiver, "aren't I, baby?"

But there's always an ulterior motive, she's always a step or two ahead. And when he spies security paying particularly close attention to their table, he clues in to her current game.

"'Bout to get extra lucky, girl," he growls, hand slipping down, grabbing her ass, and she lets out a high-pitched giggle.

It doesn't take long to cash in their chips, takes even less time for them to exit the casino, and away from prying eyes.

"Was that close?" she asks, breathless, sliding into the waiting limousine.

"Too close," he murmurs.

And maybe it's the adrenaline. Maybe it's the pocket full of easy money. Maybe it's her, by his side.

But when he kisses her, it's not a game, not a distraction. It's heavy hands and biting teeth and too much tongue and noses bumping awkwardly.

It's real and it's imperfect and the best kiss he's ever had.

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

Somewhere between the casino and the nightclub, everything shifts. It's a glimpse of what could have transpired at Old Tom's, a taste of what could have been.

It's addictive. It's intoxicating.

It's Beth Greene straddling his lap, whimpering against his mouth, palming his cock through his dress pants.

She has to stop. He doesn't want her to stop. But she _has_ to.

"Stop," he murmurs.

And she does.

"Sorry," she whispers, pressing a kiss to his jaw, sliding across the seat, putting some distance between them, "you make me forget myself, you know?"

Yeah. Of course he knows.

She makes him forget himself too.

Like right now, they are in a limo. Nope, that detail doesn't matter. Right now they are on their way to a nightclub.

That doesn't matter either.

Right now, they are less than twenty-four hours away from the biggest heist of their lives. And if they play their cards right, the _last_ heist of the lives.

Last heist too, if they play their cards _wrong_.

That's all in the back of their minds; well, in the back of his mind. Best-case and worst-case scenarios and just _scenarios_ , flitting through his mind like a movie.

When there's too much money, there are too many things that can go wrong.

Too many variables. Too many people wanting that taste of glory.

"Stop," she places a hand on his thigh, a frown playing on his lips.

"Sorry."

He takes her hand in his, placing a soft kiss to her knuckles, one by one.

He needs to _remember_.

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

The club is called _Alexandria_ and since it's opening, it's been the go-to hotspot in Vegas.

There's something honest about dim lighting and thumping bass. He can read people here; take one look in their eyes and know their intentions. Know their fears and desires and lies and truths.

It is a maze of shelves and books and couches and tables all opening up to a dance floor where bodies writhe and grind together to the music.

It's not his kind of place.

But Aaron is his kind of people.

He takes her hand, drags her towards a grand, spiralling staircase. Gives the man at the foot of it his name and the velvet rope parts for them. Leads her past the beautiful and the rich, this time to a man guarding a door.

He doesn't give his name. The door just opens.

A long corridor, clean, adequately lit. A few doors marked 'Employees Only'. They turn right and come to a stop in front of another door. He knocks firmly.

"What's the password?" A voice yells out.

"How about, let us the fuck in?"

The door swings open and the man on the other side pulls him into a hug.

 _Aaron_.

He pulls back, and flashes Beth a grin.

"Beth Greene, as I live and breathe."

"Aaron."

Yes, _Aaron_. No last name. Not a real one, anyway. A certain degree of anonymity is key if you're a money launderer.

Especially if you're one of the best in the business.

Aaron ushers them into the room. Well, not a room, per se, but a closed off balcony above the bar, overlooking the club.

"Daryl, you remember Eric?"

He nods at the other man, who gives them a smile, pouring four glasses of what Daryl assumes is some very expensive champagne. Beth flops down on the couch, accepting the drink eagerly and taking a delicate sip.

"This place is amazing!" Beth exclaims, eyes darting around the room.

"Thanks," Aaron chuckles, "it was all Eric, though."

"I'm a genius, what can I say?" the other man smirks, holding out his hand to Beth, "Come on, let's explore. Life isn't meant to be lived on the sidelines, after all."

With a giggle, she allows herself to be dragged out the room and through the door they came from.

"Don't worry," Aaron says, a note of seriousness in his tone, "they'll be eyes on her at all times."

"Girl's strong," Daryl mutters, "she can take care of herself."

"Oh, I don't doubt that," Aaron walks over to the small bar, pouring two glasses of clear liquid, passing Daryl one, keeping the other, "the daughter of Hershel and Annette Greene, sister of Shawn and Maggie? Not to mention her resume...where did you find her, anyway?"

Daryl shrugs, taking a sip.

"At a bar."

Laughing, Aaron settles on the couch.

"You know how many people are chasing a score this big?"

"More than I'd like," Daryl mutters, taking another swig. _Moonshine_.

"There's a rumour that this is a revenge job."

This pikes his interest. If there's a rumour, a whisper, and it's out there, then he's sure it's reached the Governor.

"Don't know nothin' about no 'revenge job'."

"Everyone wants diamonds," Aaron smiles wryly, "and everyone wants blood. Not just Grimes. Be careful, Daryl. Watch your back. And hers."

Like there's a possibility that he won't.

"The last Greene that got messed up with the Governor ended up dead," Aaron tells him carefully, "well, last _two_."

Two Greene's dead.

 _Shawn Greene in Paris._

 _Annette Greene…_

They don't talk about Annette Greene.

With good reason, it seems.

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

"Where to?"

She's breathless, as he leads her from the club to the limo. Aaron's parting words lingering heavily on his mind.

 _You deserve some happiness. You've always deserved it._

 _Now go find it._

"Wherever you want," he murmurs, and she hums with contentment, sliding closer to him, resting her cheek against his chest.

"How about we just drive for a while."

That he can do. Watch as the city flies by, his hand absently stroking her hair, a comfortable silence between them.

"What happened to Shawn?"

The instant he says it, he regrets it. She stiffens in his arms, and he finds himself holding his breath.

"He was shot."

 _Executed_.

"But that's not what you meant, was it, Daryl?"

She sounds weary. _Exhausted_.

"Forget I asked."

"No," Beth objects, eyes meeting his, "the Governor killed my mother. Shawn tried to kill the Governor. And he failed."

Daryl sighs. Runs a hand over his face, feeling old and tired and like maybe six million isn't worth any of this and maybe he should just tell the driver to head east and keep going until he hits Georgia.

"I don't want blood, Daryl," she sighs, "I'm not after vengeance. I just want this job to be over. I just want an unwritten life."

 _An unwritten life_. Where the rules aren't lifted straight out of some grifter's handbook. Where everyone you meet isn't a potential mark, or a threat. Where every single detail of your day isn't meticulously planned, twice over.

"Sounds nice," he mutters, looking away.

"You can have that too, you know," she says eagerly, grabbing his hand, " _we_ can have it."

 _We_. What's _we_? He pictures it, briefly, the scenarios: a house in the woods, his bike and the open highway. Beth, smiling and singing.

A kid or two…

 _Stop_.

"Stop."

He glances at her, surprised.

Stop what? Stop thinking? What happens when he stops thinking? To stop thinking is to grow complacent. To grow complacent is to let his guard down. To let his guard down is to put himself, put his team, put _her_ in immediate danger.

It's not an option.

But, as it turns out, she's not asking him to do that.

"Stop the car."

Curiously, he peers out the window.

 _Little Chapel of Love._

Her grin is wide, mischievous. Full of life, of laughter. Of endless possibilities.

"Do you wanna?"

He swallows audibly.

Beth just smiles.

 **.**

 **.**

 **.**

 **,**

In the hotel room, he traces patterns on her skin.

Wife. Husband. Everything in between.

"You make me crazy, girl," he murmurs into her hair, sighing, almost in exasperation.

"Good," she smiles, pressing a kiss to his chest. He hums beside her. This is crazy. So crazy. Less than three hours ago, they were in a nightclub, playing games, losing themselves in their roles.

Now they are anything but an act.

Now they are legally binding.

"I don't regret it," she whispers, entwining her fingers with his. Her hands are so smooth, so soft. He can't imagine them ever getting dirty.

Ever causing harm.

"Neither do I," he admits.

It will be dawn soon. It will be a new day, and with that new day, brings new challenges, and new fears.

With the new day, brings their mission. Brings diamonds and danger and risk and reward.

Brings the threat of death.

And the possibility of a life beyond what he's ever envisioned.

 _A life unwritten._

When Beth talks about it, it almost sounds possible.

(And in his heart of hearts, he hopes it is so.)

 **.**

 **.**


End file.
